


I'll Look After You

by TheExplodingPen



Series: what's mine is yours to make your own [1]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Plug, Light BDSM, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, bet you didn't see that coming, dom!Clint, hawksilver - Freeform, sub!Pietro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-31
Updated: 2015-05-31
Packaged: 2018-04-02 03:42:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4044556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheExplodingPen/pseuds/TheExplodingPen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pietro looks fucking gorgeous when he's about to come, and, distantly, Clint thinks this probably isn't what Steve meant when he said <em>Take care of him, Barton.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Look After You

The kid isn't dead when they get him back to the base. He's close to it and fading fast, but Wanda's helping to keep the bleeding at bay and Tony is screaming at someone on the phone because apparently, the Cradle that Ultron stole wasn't the only working model and at this point, that's one of the only things that's going to save the kid.

He is just a kid. A dumb fucking kid who shouldn't have stepped in front of the bullets meant for Clint. Clint's had time to put things in order and prepare his loved ones and come to terms with the fact that he's going to die out there on a mission one day, and Pietro, he hasn't. He's just a goddamn kid, and if he doesn't make it, Clint's never going to be able to forgive himself. 

Tony gets the Cradle delivered, and Clint spends the next three days on a vigil. It takes less than six hours to repair the damage done to Pietro's body, but he's in a coma afterward, and while the doctors are optimistic about a complete recovery, Clint's still shaking with adrenaline and the inability to do anything to fucking help. 

They put him in a room by himself, and by the time Clint extracts himself from report-filing and other bureaucratic nonsense, Wanda's already in the room, sitting next to her brother's bed and holding his hand. She looks tired, Clint notices, and when he walks into the room, her head jerks up, like he startled her awake. 

“You need sleep,” he says, and when she opens her mouth to protest, he opens one of the cabinet doors and pulls out a blanket and a pillow, tossing them both onto the couch in the room. “I'll sit next to him. You need to sleep, kid. You aren't gonna do him any good by being wiped when he wakes up.”

She doesn't say anything, but she takes the couch, and Clint seats himself in her vacated spot, and after a moment, he takes Pietro's hand in his own, focusing on the way he can feel the steady beat of his heart through it. The kid's gonna make it, it's just a matter of time of how long he makes them wait.

Clint's not leaving until he sees those blue eyes open again.

* * *

Wanda wakes up seven hours later. The sun's risen and there's light streaming into the room, but she closes the curtains with a flick of her wrist and stands, picking up the blanket. Clint almost tells her to leave it, it's fine, she'll need it again later, but before he can, she carries it over to him and drapes it across his shoulders. 

“You are not, either,” she says, and it takes him a moment to connect that to his admonition from earlier. He could protest, he knows, but the blanket is warm from her body heat and he's tired, all of a sudden, in his bones. 

“Just a nap,” he says, dutifully moving over to the couch.”Wake me up when you want to go get something to eat, all right?”

Wanda nods, and Clint's out the moment his head touches the pillow.

* * *

Twenty-four hours pass.

Between the two of them, Clint and Wanda only leave his room three times a day – for meals. They bring back enough for the other person, and then sit and eat in the relative silence, marred only by the sound of the medical equipment. They don't chat, and Clint doesn't press it. He's grateful enough that she's letting him be here in the first place, because as far as he's concerned, Wanda Maximoff has every right to hate his guts.

She looks up sharply when he thinks that and frowns.

She doesn't say anything about it for another twenty-four hours.

* * *

It's been two days and there's scruff on Clint's chin and neck, but shaving takes time and not being in the room makes him nervous. He's not doing anything by being there, he knows that, but leaving for more than ten minutes at a time feels wrong and he wants to be there when the kid wakes up. He _needs_ to be there when the kid wakes up, because he really, really needs to thank him, and then make him fucking promise to never, ever do that again.

It's on the second day that Wanda looks at him and says, “My brother made his choice. That guilt is not yours to carry.”

Clint doesn't answer.

* * *

Pietro wakes up on the third day.

There's nothing big, nothing special, just Wanda sucking in a breath and jerking to her feet from where she's curled up on the couch and going over to sit opposite Clint, taking her brother's other hand in her own. A moment later, the kid stirs, opens his eyes, and Clint lets out a breath that he thinks he's been holding for the better part of a week.

Pietro looks down at himself, makes a face, and then glances up at Clint. “Can't say I saw this coming,” he says, and Wanda hits him and Clint laughs so hard he's wheezing at the end of it.

Steve shows up about an hour later to find that they haven't moved. Neither Wanda nor Clint are too keen on letting the kid get out of bed too soon, and despite the protests that he's fine, they're not budging. After a clean bill of health from the doctors, they'll consider it, and Clint doesn't even think about the fact that he's now part of making decisions for the kid. He doesn't think about that responsibility, and he definitely doesn't think about the way that Pietro's hand is still laced together tightly with his own.

“Barton, can I talk to you?”

It's reluctant, but Clint gets to his feet, squeezing Pietro's hand before letting go and walking away. It's not the hardest thing he's done in his life, but it definitely makes the Top Ten list, so whatever Steve wants to talk to him about better be really fucking important.

Once they get out into the hallway, it hits him, hard. He's shaking, and he knows he is, in a kind of removed way, but he can't make it stop. He's so fucking relieved he can taste it, can feel it in the air, can see it reflected back in the knowing look that Steve gives him, right before pulling him into a tight hug.

“Take care of him, Barton,” the man says, and all Clint can feel is grateful.

* * *

Pietro looks fucking gorgeous when he's about to come, and, distantly, Clint thinks this probably isn't what Steve meant when he said _Take care of him, Barton._

The base has a room full of industrial washing machines and dryers, because most of the people who work there wear uniforms and don't go home at the end of the day, but at the moment, Clint could really care less about _why_ the machines are there. He's just really, really glad that they are.

Right now, Pietro's sitting on top of one of the vibrating dryers, wearing only a pair of white boxer briefs that used to belong to Clint, making pretty little pleasured noises. The picture is pretty fucking gorgeous all by itself, but the knowledge that the boy has a plug wedged up tightly inside him, keeping Clint's come from an hour ago from dripping out, well... all of that is a contributing factor to how hard Clint is in his jeans.

The rules of this particular game are simple: Pietro has to keep his hands on his head, so that he can't take any weight off his ass, and if he can ride out the entire dryer cycle without coming, then Clint will let him come in his mouth when it's all over. If he doesn't make it, though, then they move to another machine. 

Wash and repeat.

The first time they'd done this, Clint had expected him to fail on the first run, and the boy had. What Clint _hadn't_ expected was for it to take four full cycles for Pietro to ride one out without coming, and he hadn't expected the boy to all but come apart the moment he put his mouth on him. There had been hours of laying in bed after that, soothing sore muscles and telling the boy that he was good, so very, very fucking good.

It's an impressive thing, really. The same genetic fuckery that made Pietro a human version of Sonic the Hedgehog made his refractory time occur somewhere in the negative numbers, but it didn't do shit for his sensitivity, which was why this game was fun. By the third cycle, and sometimes before, Pietro would be moaning aloud, his cock thick and hard in his underwear, rocking up against the little friction they could offer him and down against the plug, begging for Clint to touch him in Romani or Russian. But Clint wouldn't, not until the machine stopped vibrating and buzzed that it was done.

They're on the second cycle now, and Pietro is flushed all the way down his chest. He's come once already, and his legs are twitching in the way that tells Clint that he's too fucking sensitive, and that this will probably be the last cycle, which is a shame, really, because he's gorgeous to watch. He palms himself through his jeans almost lazily as he watches – he never gets off here, like this. This isn't about him feeling good, or getting to orgasm. It's about making sure that the gorgeous boy rocking almost desperately on the machine in front of him knows that, no matter what, he is going to be looked after.

“Are you only going to give me two, _milyy_?” Clint asks, biting his lip when Pietro's concentration breaks and he rocks back a little too hard, making his cock twitch visibly in his underwear. “You're getting better at this. You look so good, trying not to come. You want my mouth, don't you?”

“Fuck!” The word is heavily tinged with Pietro's accent, thick with arousal and desperation. “Please, fuck, _pozhaluysta,_ I need it. Too much, I can't...”

“You can,” Clint says gently, very nearly giving in to the urge to walk over and press the palm of his hand to the bulge in Pietro's underwear. That would break one of his own rules, though, even if it didn't touch on the official ones. “You've done it before for me, pet, I know you can do it again.”

Pietro whines, high and tight, but before Clint can reassure him again, the dryer buzzes and stops moving, and the boy lets out a veritable sob of relief. 

“Please, Clint, sir, I can't, I _can't_ , I'm so close, _yebat_ , Clint, please...”

“Easy, easy, just relax.” Clint steps forward and reaches out, hands sliding up Pietro's thighs, and he smiles when the action makes the boy shiver and twist, trying to press his cock up into the harder surface presented to him. “Easy, pet, you know I'm going to take care of you. Keep your hands on your head, now, there's a good boy.”

Like always, Pietro jerks and lets out a pathetic sound at that, but he doesn't protest it like he did in the beginning, just nods and gasps when Clint tugs the waistband of his underwear down over his cock. It's torturous friction and Clint knows it, so as soon as the garment is somewhere on the floor, he leans down and takes the wet head of Pietro's cock into his mouth. 

It's a mixture of immediately sliding down until the boy's cock hits the back of his throat, his humming, Pietro's sensitivity and the fact that Clint isn't all that shabby with his mouth that has the boy coming in under fifteen seconds, hips pushing forward and head falling back as he rides out the throes of his orgasm.

By the time Pietro comes back to himself, Clint's all but dressed him, sliding the underwear back up over his hips and wrapping him up in an oversized sweatshirt he'd bought for just this purpose. He strokes the boy's hair and soothes him, murmuring softly, until Pietro's hands slowly unclench from his own hair and move to Clint's chest, shaky and slow. 

“You did so well for me,” Clint murmurs, and Pietro shudders again in his arms. “So well.” He leans the boy forward against his chest, and then slides a hand down into his underwear, fingers easily finding the base of the plug and slipping it out of him. Pietro whines against his neck, but otherwise doesn't even move, content with being propped up where he is. 

“There we go,” Clint murmurs again. He'll take the boy up to his room, now, and help him shower, and then crawl into bed with him and hold him until this period of shakiness and sensitivity passes. 

After that, he'll probably fuck him again, just to watch how his body always wants more.

**Author's Note:**

>  _milyy_ : dear  
>  _pozhaluysta_ : please  
>  _yebat_ : fuck
> 
> I am literal trash. I hope you enjoyed that. Inspired by [this fucking picture](http://style.gq.com.au//media/articles/2/7/1/0/27130-1_l.jpg?162941) of Aaron Taylor Johnson. Click the link. It is so worth it.


End file.
